


Regression

by Camfield



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:37:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/618151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camfield/pseuds/Camfield
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Bluestreak becomes a parent, in a very non traditional way.  Sometimes our hearts choose things for us, and sometimes it creates bonds that raise their fists to those who seek, however inadvertently, to hurt those we care for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regression

If you’d asked Bluestreak what he thought of being a creator during the war, he’d have answered you with a raised orbital ridge and a snort. Wartime was never a good time for sparklings, and the fact that their native time was so much longer than Earth time would have thrown the system into even more chaos.

He vaguely remembered his own creators, a gentle femme grounder and a stoic flight frame. His one perfect memory recall was of them all in the crystal gardens of Praxus before the fall. His sire was standing with his wings spread wide in the middle of a special set of formations, voice singing out clear and pure in the atmosphere. He modulated it, harmonizing with the ring of the crystals as they vibrated from the sound waves, carefully weaving in rhythms and patterns. Bluestreak could recall watching awestruck from his carrier’s lap. Silently staring as his sire seemed to glow with the same energy as the crystals, singing to the heart of Praxus.

But Praxus was long gone, buried along with most of his memory core in the debris left on Cyberton and he was here staring openmouthed at Optimus Prime.

“I’m sorry, you want me to what?”

Ratchet huffed, Optimus gave Bluestreak a crooked smile. “We are asking select individuals to accept responsibilty of certain Decepticons we believe are worth rehabilitating.”

Rehabilitating? Bluestreak himself had been ‘rehabilitated’ and this was nothing of the sort. He almost wasn’t sure if this was the same Prime he had followed into battle.

“Prime...”

“We understand this isn’t protocol, Bluestreak. What we are asking will require a certain amount of discretion on your part. You may decline now and walk away, but if you do decide to accept this proposal it will be permanent. They will live with you until we deem them capable of re-entering society.” The Prime looked at him with a somber expression. “This is a very serious and delicate situation, Bluestreak. Please understand that your decision here has no bearing on your position within the Autobots.”

Bluestreak crossed his arms under his front bumper. They refused to give him the name of the Decepticon he’d be assigned until they had an affirmative answer, which was understandable even if it was annoying. He was fairly certain that what they’d done was illegal under the old system, but there was no one to take any of them to trial even if it was. They were what was left, creating new rules and government as the need hit. It bothered him that they were willing to strip a mech of so much of what made them what they were. He understood the reasons, but he also knew the pain of not being able to remember something that hovered within his spark.

He wasn’t sure, in the end, whether it was his petty desire to hold absolute power over a Decepticon or a genuine need to help a mech who now had so much in common with himself that helped him decide. He stared at both Ratchet and Optimus, watching them watch him. They showed no remorse for ripping an enemy apart, which wasn’t unexpected, but it was that they showed no remorse for causing sparklings pain that angered Bluestreak. 

If nothing else, that pushed him over the edge. At least one of them would find a place with him. 

“Show me, then.”

Ratchet just rolled his optics, but Optimus clearly relaxed. Gesturing them both out of the office and down the hall, waiting until they entered the medbay before locking the door behind them.

“Soon enough the base will know, however for the first few orn I would like you to spend your time with Soundwave exclusively. You have been removed from the active work roster, and will not be returned to it until he exhibits the capability to take care of himself for a half duty shift. If you find that you need a break, we will provide a list of mechs capable of watching him for a short period of time.”

Optimus paused, gathering himself. “It has already been said, but I will repeat it now. Soundwave is, for all intents and purposes, a sparkling. Reset to base coding settings. We have extracted his memory core and deleted the vast majority of it, and he will gain some of it back as he progresses. At this point, we cannot actually be sure that he even knows he has cassettes. He has not been woken from stasis since the reprogramming, so it is likely that there will be confusion and fear when he reboots.”

Bluestreak cycled his optics in surprise. He had heard Soundwave and assumed the cassettes were a part of the deal, much like Blaster and his cassettes were. He had been unaware that it was even possible to separate carrier mechs from their cassettes.

“His frame has been reformatted. He still has the internal systems to support cassettes, it was too integrated into his frame to remove safely, but he no longer has the door to admit them.” Ratchet gestured to his chest. 

“Now, if you’re ready?” Optimus looked at him questioningly. Bluestreak nodded, and followed the larger mech to one of the isolation rooms. The door lock was disengaged and the Prime stepped back.

“We will wait out here. If there are no problems, you may take him back to your quarters at any time.”

He nodded, stepping through the door and shutting it behind him. Activating the lights and looking over the altered frame. He looked very nearly exactly the same as before. The only difference, the obvious lack of door and buttons on his chest. He no longer had an alt mode, either.

The monitor at the side of the bed began beeping slowly, more than likely Ratchet engaging a boot sequence remotely, and the thrum of a power plant humming to life faintly reached his audials. A twitch of a leg, fingertips jerking as he powered up.

Soundwave’s optics flickered, then suddenly the alarms on the monitors began to beep loudly. The white face contorting into an expression of pain, a loud wail coming out of his mouth. 

Bluestreak had no idea what to do. He wrung his hands in front of him, looking at the door to the monitors to Soundwave. Unsure if he was supposed to calm him down or wait for Ratchet, they hadn’t mentioned anything about the alarms.

After a moment though, he found that he could no longer stand idly by. Soundwave had curled up on his side and was sobbing into his hands. Plaintive cries that tugged at Bluestreak’s spark in ways he’d never felt before. He’d never, ever heard something so sparkbreaking in his life. Each cry, each wail made him more upset. He nearly tripped in his haste to get to the side of the berth, hands reaching out and touching everywhere they could. Trying to get a grip on the navy mech that allowed him to comfort.

There was a moment when it felt like he was making it worse. White hands gripped tighter to Soundwave’s face and he flinched from the touch in what looked so very much like fear to Bluestreak.

“Hey. You’re alright Soundwave... Shhhhh...” He whispered it low, dialing his vocalizer into the rarely used deep tenor. The longer sound vibrations always seemed to calm his friends down, and eventually Soundwave quieted.

It had been much longer than he’d even realized when Soundwave finally stopped crying. At some point he’d hauled himself onto the berth and tucked the blue helm into his neck. Petting and soothing with soft touches and words. Soundwave’s hands had made their way from his face to curl into fists in front of his chest. Clenched tightly to his body as though he was afraid to touch anything.

It was longer still than that before he worked up enough courage to sit them both up.

Energon had been left in the room and Bluestreak picked up two of the cubes. Handing one to Soundwave, holding it out patiently until a hesitant hand grasped it, and drinking the other one down quickly. It was much needed, and he felt refreshed immediately as the fuel hit his tank.

Soundwave looked at him, then the cube. Sharp optics watching Bluestreak drink, then trying to emulate the movement. His movement was uncoordinated and the edge of the cube hit his cheek, slopping Energon down the front of him. Bluestreak jumped when the liquid hit his leg and Soundwave shrank back, a terrified look on his face.

Anger threatened to bloom out. They hadn’t left him with the basics? Really? He took a deep invent, giving Soundwave a smile and burying the anger down. It wouldn’t help him now anyway.

“You’re alright, here. Just do it slow, bring it up to your lips.” 

Bluestreak touched Soundwave’s mouth, and the hand not holding the energon cube came up to touch it as well. Patting over his lips, then slowly bringing up the Energon. The intense focus that Bluestreak remembered in the other Soundwave coming out as he worked to not spill it again. Brushing the rim of the cube against his lips and holding it there, waiting. 

For all it made him mad, the sight of Soundwave holding an Energon cube to his mouth and waiting for something to happen was inexplicably cute. He laughed softly and tipped the cube in increments. Slowly letting the fuel drain into Soundwave’s mouth. Stopping every bit or so to allow him to swallow the accumulated liquid before tipping it up slightly again.

When the cube was finished he gently took it and flicked the containment field away. Smiling at the awestruck expression that came over his charge when it dispersed into the air in strings of blue.


End file.
